Something has infuriated Jeanette, currently in Hebron. Jeanette is poking herself with a fork. She knows what triggered it. Her explanation is that this is her despair speaking of always being wronged. Jeanette is paid handsomely to stay in Hebron for a month. A few thousand bucks. No need to work. Just stay there for a month. Like a severely underpaid Mr Beast challenge. A few thousands bucks is a lot for a fired French teacher like Jeanette.
After three years of unemployment she had figured it out. She needed to get closer to God.
She threw on some traditional looking garb. Her idea of what a local jewish woman should look like. She took the gig of squatting in Hebron for a month. Well, reclaiming Hebron from the rabble.
She now throws her trash down to the streets. She’s occupying two rooms on the upper floors, the lower floors still have Palestinians in them. They have spanned a net to catch the trash.
She’s considered throwing white phosphorus down on them.
Today she was hanging out the window in a meditation exercise during which she envisions an Arab free Hebron.
Her vision was bluntly marred.
A Palestinian girl, perhaps three years old, had waved and smiled at her.
Worse, the parents hadn’t chastized the girl for her insolent, misplaced smile.
And now the hurt Jeanette intends for that toddler is being aimed at the skin of Jeanette’s belly.
Just the skin. Nothing risky.
It has to just sting hard enough for Jeanette to feel how much the world owes her.
